Category Archives: Riding the Magic Mushroom

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“It’s only a pack of cards” she says
and he watches her hands
as she shuffles and deals,
holds up the heart that he chose
and folded deep into the pack
only seconds ago.

She’s smiling that half smile
that intrigues and repels,
and he wants to know what she did
but all she will say is
“It’s only a pack of cards”
and she shows him again
and he watches her hands,
and again, and he watches
her eyes, and again
and he asks and he asks,

Alice said “Trust me”,
like I had a choice –
like it was not just
her and me, backed in a corner –
no loopholes here, no
rabbit hole, no looking glass,
no tiny door locked
with a tiny key…

all the same, Alice said
“Trust me”, and her face
had that expression on it –
that one that conjures
aging knights in rusty armour,
that finds a seat at any table,
that laughs at pompous people
and their pompous ways

And in the red corner
it’s him – all tawny hair
and dazzling teeth. He laughs –
a lot – he’s not read
Harry Potter, but he’s seen
the films. And in the blue,
she’s looking on, purple
bruise dress, black boots,
arms folded …

and all
Alice has to do now is decide
if she will spend the evening
at a noisy party, dancing
til she sweats, and shouting
to be heard above the music,
and laughing, always laughing,
and heading home at dawn
in last night’s dress…

or if
she’ll head down to the river,
with some vodka, maybe, and
watch the moonlight on the water,
and talk about the real things
that really matter, and watch
the sun rise over the grey streets…

and she
can’t decide, and all the time
that old rhyme beats a drum
inside her head…

If this was all that was required of her –
to be this girl,
in this white dress –
frilled and flounced –
to walk forever to and fro
on this green lawn,
wending and weaving
between these hoops,
and carrying this ridiculous
croquet mallet, smiling politely –

how would that be?

If this was all that was expected –
to be pretty enough, to talk,
to laugh at the right moment –
and not at any other –
to sip tea
from a bone china cup,
to breathlessly decline
to play again –

would that be sufficient?

Or would there always be some part of her
that feared
the shock of anger
a sudden spilling of blood –

Alice is off her head
again –
she should never have drunk
that tiny drink, or eaten
that little cake, so small,
and so innocuous – and now
her face is bigger than her head
and her feet are a million miles away –

but even though the room is
kaleidoscoping round her
and the walls are tumbling
upwards
and she can only swim
in her own tears

Alice remembers this gryphon.
It jutted out from the tower –
pastiche, of course, some
forebear with a fantasy.
Alice has sympathy with that,
and with this gryphon,
reduced by time and weather,
features blurred. She strokes
his face, gentled by erosion.

Alice is not a sentimental
woman, but this gryphon
watched over her childhood
games, her intense
imaginings. She cannot bear
to leave him here,
in this yard full of
statues, chipped,
moss-softened,
greying marble –
an angel with a missing hand
pointing a stump
to heaven;
a nymph, punished
for some long-forgotten
crime, her nose chipped off;
a lion with a rakish look,
hindquarters crushed.

Alice regards the lobster
calm on the white platter
disregarding the chatter
and clatter of silver
cutlery that shimmers
around the table.
Alice has eaten
one green round
of cucumber,
and sipped a glass
of cold, white wine.